


Mis-Trial of a Time Lord

by Savaial



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 11 is a jerk, Doctor Who itself is not canon compliant, Eleven's Beard, Humor, M/M, Never lie when the truth is worse, Not Canon Compliant, Time Lord shaming, We love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savaial/pseuds/Savaial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleven gets called to the carpet.  Not everyone is out for his blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mis-Trial of a Time Lord

**Mis-Trial of a Time Lord**

 

 

“I understand, finally, how they broke the Time Lock, and even how they preserved Gallifrey, but how did they advance the planet’s timeline by fifty years?” The Doctor wondered aloud. His chains chaffed something fierce, and talking helped distract him from the discomfort a little. “Honestly, I’m glad to have them back, but I’m not a war criminal! Give me my day in a fair court!”

Silence. Always silence. The Doctor had begun to believe this was the warning of ‘silence will fall’, _**his**_ silence. Well, he’d talk as long as he had to, thanks, because he wasn’t giving up. He smelled funny by now, was starving and dehydrated, was cold and damp and loosing his patience with incarceration, but he would not quit. Would not. Out of the question.

“Guard! I want water!” He shouted. It never did much good, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to be loud, abrasive, and persistent, and, to make a complete arse of himself.

 

**

 

“So, you deny the Master’s involvement? You deny his culpability in your sabotage and attempted genocide?” The judge asked, his pompous voice carrying effortlessly over the packed courtroom. He’d gotten nowhere with the infuriating Doctor, and felt ready to pop off good and proper.

The Doctor sighed. “Look, it isn’t my fault you misjudged him, or that you resurrected him. Yes, he’d look like the perfect warrior to the High Council because he’s all ‘ooohh, scary’, and even _**destructive**_ , but you have to take into consideration that all of you are scared of your own shadows, so your perception of him is a little bit…” The Doctor paused dramatically, aware everyone was listening to every word he said even if he’d insulted and irritated them. “Skewed,” he finished lamely.

“Answer the question,” the judge roared. They’d been here three days without let-up, because that was the law, to get trials over no matter what. But, he felt there’d be a new law on the books about proper lunch breaks and naps before the Doctor’s trial got even one-sixteenth underway.

The Doctor smiled at him. “The Master had nothing to do with it.”

“You _lie_!” The judge had a headache now. It made his temples feel they’d burst. He wanted to wipe that placid, smug smile off the Doctor’s rectangular face.

“You _wish_ ,” the Doctor replied softly, still smiling. “Do you get special points from the Lord High President for condemning us together or something?” The Master was probably alive and plotting mischief somewhere, given that time had been snapped, folded and ironed to the will of the Time Lords. The Doctor hoped so, anyway. Well, the alive part, not the plotting. He could do without the Master’s special sense of fun. “The Master actually _helped_ the president in his madness. If you ask me you should have our _glorious-elect_ on trial for ruining my once-best-friend’s life.”

A clamor began immediately.

The judge had to call his sixth emergency recess.

 

**

 

“So,” the judge said tiredly. At week three of the Doctor’s trial, with absolutely no cooperation on the Doctor’s part and no chance of a good sleep for anyone, they hadn’t advanced one jot. The judge thought ‘so’ might be all he could manage. “So,” he said again, surprising himself, “you deny you’re guilty of genocide.”

“Which planet have I exterminated?” The Doctor asked, all innocence. “Does Skaro count? I suppose it doesn’t, since the High Council _**forced**_ me into destroying it!”

Thirty-nine bailiffs, eighteen law officers, six court psychiatrists and one repeatedly banging gavel couldn’t restore order. The judge slunk low in his chair, miserable and tetchy. One more night and he’d pass over the trial to someone else. He only hoped his notes were legible.

 

**

 

“Now, Doctor,” the new, fresh judge said, taking his chair. He glanced at the mess of energy bar wrappers under the desk, the pile of coffee cups and the No-Doze bottle with no lid. He paused to sneer at weaker Time Lords who couldn’t rule a courtroom. In his day you shouted at people until they confessed, blubbing and snotting.

He swept the detritus into the nearby bin and scowled at the famed rouge currently chained to the opposing podium. “Twice you have been appointed High President of Gallifrey, yet you’ve never served in the capacity that the moral majority deemed.” He paused in order to give his next words some impact. “You cannot use your past post for special dispensation.”

The very idea was ridiculous. If the Doctor had a proper lawyer it wouldn’t have even been brought up, but, no, the Doctor had to represent _himself_.

“Excuse me,” a mild, masculine voice said. An effeminate, pretty man stood up, blushing with his hand held at half-mast. “Sorry if you all don’t recognize me, but I’ve regenerated.”

“Who are you?” The judge asked shortly.

“Councilor Flavia, retired,” the man said.

“Go on,” the judge said, now feeling a bit disgusted that Councilor Flavia, formerly female, felt awkward over his new body. In his day you were glad you regenerated with two arms and two legs and a head. Everything else was a bonus. “What do you have to add?”

“Well,” Flavia said, coughing delicately. “The Doctor did give orders while serving the presidency.” His blush grew to an alarming shade. “It was during that unpleasant business with the deposing of Lord President Borusa.”

“Ah yes, Borusa!” The Doctor exclaimed, looking rather scary for a moment with his sunken, overly-bright eyes gleaming and his bushy, aggressive beard growth. “He wanted immortality. Never a good goal. Better to hope you _**don’t**_ get it.”

The judge sighed and barely, barely resisted putting his head in his hands. “And, what orders did the Doctor give?” he bit out. He hated being reminded of Borusa, the pasty-faced, withered up old embarrassment; he’d made the entire planet look bad before vanishing, violating so many time laws and ethics so as to set them back in their pride some eight million years.

Flavia coughed again. “He told me and my attendants to return to the capitol and await further instructions. We went, but he never got around to turning up.”

“That counts!” Someone hollered from somewhere in the nosebleed section.

“Does not, because he didn’t return!” Someone volleyed from the V.I.P. stands.

“Immaterial! Orders were given and obeyed, constituting a _**binding agreement**_ to the position of presidency on the behalf of the _**council**_ , but not by the Doctor!” The first man shouted back. “Article 721, Subsection Rho, and Paragraph Two of the Official Charter!”

A great murmuring combined with paper crackling and the breeze of fourteen hundred Charter books made the judge feel like a bird caught in a turbine. He fanned himself in a bizarre thought that generating his own wind would counteract the sudden feeling of futility and doom. The Charter read exactly what that upstart in the poor-boxes claimed, and the judge had rather hoped it wouldn’t be brought up at all. Trust some democrat to derail justice.

“Article 723, Subsection Rho, Paragraph Five, Amendment Two,” someone new chimed in. “Any president who gives an order and has it obeyed by any member of the council, has accepted office and must be treated as such!”

The Doctor smiled a little, right at the judge, eyes locked. Casually, he adjusted his cuff restraints and pulled out a stool to sit upon. The way he adjusted his bow tie smacked of raw insolence.

“Article 152, Subsection Kappa, Paragraph Nine, Statute Four,” the second man shouted at top voice. “Any person elected president proven unfit for service is automatically replaced with his second in command. Who was his second?”

Flavia bowed his head and wouldn’t look at anyone.

“This is immaterial!” The judge said, banging the gavel. “The Doctor cannot have his trial thrown out because he was once the president!”

“But, he wasn’t voted out!” The first voice protested. “Look it up on the records! President Forbusalindelketrimandar assumed control. Our current Lord High President deposed him.”

“You can’t depose a president, just elect him out,” some testy little swot in the twelfth row argued. “Well, one can also assassinate him, of course.”

“If the office of Lord High President doesn’t exclude one from being put on trial,” the first voice in this debate shouted, “why isn’t the _**current**_ president on trial for two counts of attempted genocide?”

Silence fell, so sudden and awful that the judge could hear the breakfast he’d eaten hardening his arteries. “Well, that’s a point,” the Doctor said, his voice carrying absolutely everywhere. “He was also going to rip Time Itself apart, but I don’t suppose that’s more important than crashing two inhabited planets together, right?”

The arguing exploded anew, one half of the assembled Council members seemingly taking umbrage at the Doctor’s thoughts, and the other half clearly interested in getting rid of President Daltanican. The judge hammered his gavel over and over, but he’d lost control and he knew it. Wearily, he braced his chin in his hand and looked out toward the Doctor.

 

Who was still smiling at him.

 

**

 

Replacement Judge Three ordered the Doctor hauled away and hosed off, firstly. The man smelled terrible. Secondly, he sat his thermos down and poured a lid full of half coffee and half hypervodka. He’d need it. He’d seen two of his fellow adjudicators go down in flames, and he feared he’d be the next. “Has the Doctor’s TARDIS been located yet?” he asked a woozy bailiff. He also feared the Doctor would somehow escape before someone in office could sort him, and the time machine carried the biggest threat of aiding him.

“Negative,” the bailiff answered, sounding like he had a mouth full of cotton. “It’s non-fixable; no sooner do we try to transduct it, it vanishes.”

“So, it’s piloted?” The judge asked hopefully. Perhaps he could get the Doctor’s accomplice.

“Again, negative. It scans empty of lifeforms.” The bailiff took a flask out of his jacket and drank, ignoring the courtroom alcohol ban. As the judge had a highly illegal mix of stimulant in front of him, the officer felt he’d be a hypocrite if he called him on it, and besides, all the other bailiffs were asleep and littering the dais.

“How is that possible? A TARDIS doesn’t fly itself,” the judge said irritably, worried over this development. If only his superiors had their act together he’d have known this by now. The first judge’s notes began at a legible level and degenerated into something quite incomprehensible by the end. The second judge’s notes were punctuated with so many unhinged ideas and filthy curse words that he hated to even skim them. Where was the dratted president, anyway?

“By the statutes given by Lord Rassilon, the Doctor’s TARDIS meets the requirements of sentient life,” the bailiff told him. “It’s unprecedented, but here’s the paperwork, sir.”

The judge brightened a little. He might be able to put the Doctor’s TARDIS on trial, if nothing else. It enabled his meddling, didn’t it? And, if sentient, it had to obey the rules of its creators, namely, the Time Lords.

“Call your TARDIS here, Doctor,” the judge ordered, forgetting he’d had the man hauled away for an appointment with a hosepipe. He saw the vacant podium and sighed. One lid-full of stimulant went into his gullet before the guards returned with the clean prisoner. He repeated his order as the Doctor was chained down again.

The Doctor stared at him like he might be a bug in a jar. “I’m sorry,” he said. “The old girl isn’t very cooperative even to people she likes. What makes you think she’s going to attend this trial at the snap of my fingers?”

More than a hundred Council members chuckled at this statement. They weren’t privy to the TARDIS’ status as sentient, and found the judge’s command and the Doctor’s answer amusing. The judge slammed his gavel down until the hilarity ceased. “Your time machine has been declared self-aware,” he announced, hoping to save face. “Surely that means she aids and abets your completely unlicensed traveling.”

“Unlicensed,” the Doctor mused aloud. “Hmm, let’s see, no, I don’t think that’s the word.”

“You deny you’re a renegade?” The judge couldn’t believe his ears. The Doctor’s status as a Time Ronin was well known, discussed, and frequently envied by more than a few.

“I’m Prydonian,” the Doctor replied. “Is that not the academy where all the troublemakers attend higher learning?”

“The Master was a Prydonian graduate!” Someone yelled.

“So was the Rani!” Another person added.

“Ushas and Koschei aren’t on trial,” the judge answered, banging his gavel again. “Yet,” he added in an ominous tone. “Now, Doctor,” he said, focusing afresh. “Yes, the Prydonian Chapter is traditionally for non-traditionalists. That isn’t the point. The point is your status. Are you or are you not a renegade?”

“Well,” the Doctor replied, looking up as he considered the question. “There are so many dimensions to that question. I seem to recall many occasions where my independent status was used by the High Council.”

“Special dispensation isn’t the issue,” the judge said severely, trying to repress the unpleasant past before it could fully bloom into the debate.

“Oh, it isn’t?” The Doctor asked, all innocence. “I dealt with the Peladon, the Daleks, Cybermen, Morbius and one particular space colony at the High Council’s behest, and even some large, crystal-obsessed spiders on Metabilis Three.”

“You can’t put him on trial for doing the High Council’s bidding!” The agitator in the nosebleed section hadn’t gone anywhere, and the judge began to hate him for taking out two of his fellow judges with nonsense, then going on to attack _him_. “Even humans recognize the hypocrisy of that!”

“The Doctor’s past service is small compared to the immature and often deadly behavior that he indulges in himself!” The judge bellowed, standing. “You up there, who are you?”

“Councilman Sahltramsetaise,” the man answered in a sneery voice.

“I don’t want to hear another word out of you!” The judge said severely.

“I have the right to speak,” the man replied, standing so as to be more easily seen, but his large robes and larger headdress prevented much identification. “Or, is the Council banned from the Doctor’s trial?”

“Let ‘em talk!” Some sixty people said nearly in unison.

“All those in favor of the Council’s free speech during the trial, raise your hands!” A man added.

The judge began to sweat as fourteen hundred hands went into the air. Fine, okay; he couldn’t suppress Sahltramsetaise. Back to another attack, then. “We’ve strayed off topic,” he announced repressively. “Your TARDIS should stand as evidence to the prosecution. I demand you bring it here!”

“She’s a she, not an ‘it’,” the Doctor corrected.

“TARDIS’ don’t have a gender!”

“Well, mine does!” The Doctor hurled back. “I’ve met her.”

“Is it even really his TARDIS?” Someone asked. “I heard he stole it.”

“I beg your pardon,” the Doctor replied. “ **She** stole **me** , actually. She told me so.”

“Preposterous!”

Once again the courtroom gathering dissolved from mere debate into chaos. The Council members, intrigued by the idea of TARDIS sentience combined with the Doctor’s claim, was enough to distract nearly everyone from the actual trial. To be fair, the judge supposed it ventured an interesting avenue of thought. He put his gavel down and stretched backward in his chair. He could catch forty winks while the discussion was fresh. He wasn’t going anywhere, after all.

 

**

 

Judge number four ordered the Panopticon cleared in order to clean up the general mess fourteen hundred and some-odd people can generate when trapped in one place. He settled down to the large desk-slash-podium of his predecessors, clearing off stimulant and hypervodka bottles with a sweep of his arm. The notes he picked up and began paging through with a sense of doom.

“Stupid,” he muttered. “They’re all stupid. No wonder they let Lord President Daltanican lead them into near extinction.” He dumped the irrelevant papers into the bin and told a bailiff to bring him the Doctor’s files. Most people had a single file, if they were lucky enough to make waves, but the Doctor had one for every regeneration. He’d have to look at all of them, plus examine the man’s biodata to look for any sign of inherent instability. He might get the renegade put away on the charge of insanity, if nothing else.

“Cardinal Justinius?” Councilor Flavia was suddenly standing beside the desk. “There’s no general alert because we wanted to preserve order, but the Lord High President has been murdered.”

“What?” The judge stood up, knocking into the desk and barking his knees on a drawer.

“Murdered,” Flavia repeated. “Someone used a D-Mat Gun on him.” He gave the judge an apologetic look. “I suppose that means a mis-trial for the Doctor.”

“Absolutely not!” The judge felt he bellowed, and by the tearful look in Flavia’s eyes, he had. “I’m tired of the Doctor slipping from justice!”

“But, there’s no prosecution if the prosecution is dead,” Flavia whispered.

“Get out!” Judge Justinius pointed to the door with what he hoped served as finality.

The very moment he was alone, a figure eased out from behind a support column and began to approach. The judge sighed. Probably another reporter. Or a fan of the Doctor’s. The man had such a following. Justinius felt that was unseemly for a Time Lord. “Who are you?” He asked shortly, looking for the paperwork that would enable a new prosecuting motion.

Cold metal went under the judge’s neck, and he froze.

“I am the Master,” the intruder proclaimed lightly, but with considerable ego. “And, you will do as I say.”

The judge swallowed nervously. He knew of the Master. Everyone did. The man’s crimes were without number, and his cruelty renowned. “What is it you want?” He turned his head slightly to view his assailant, surprised when a man with dark hair and a beard coalesced instead of the visage on the current wanted posters. “Look here, have you regenerated?”

“Not yet,” the man said in a chillingly amused tone. “What I want for you to do is step down from the case.”

“Someone has to finish this prolonged agony,” Justinius argued, but he didn’t move a jot. Whatever was under his neck felt no less cold than it did to begin with.

“Well, it won’t be you, Cardinal,” the Master informed. “If you persist in officiating, I’m afraid your predilection for Earth Colony 128 will become public knowledge.”

Justinius began to sweat. “There’s nothing illegal about visiting earth colonies,” he protested.

“It’s frowned upon when visiting is about money exchanging hands for sex,” the Master said, nailing the issue squarely between the eyes. “Your favorite prostitute, a Miss Carstairs, I believe, is prepared to write a verified account of her services to you, should you continue in your persecution of the Doctor.”

The judge managed to get a good look at the man who’d effectively stopped the best tail he’d ever regularly had, and threw a pipe wrench into the wheels of justice to boot. “I know you,” he whispered. “But you’re the one who stole a Trakanite body!”

“Violating time laws is child’s play. I don’t need the council or Rassilonite toys to accomplish it,” the Master said, sniffing disdainfully afterward. “Now, write your resignation.”

“You won’t get away with this.” Justinius began scrambling for a decent pen.

“I already have.” The Master smiled at him.

“Why are you helping the Doctor?” Justinius began writing his unfortunate step-down. He hoped someone could read it. His hand was shaking a bit.

“Whimsy,” the Master answered. “And, because he upsets everyone. Now, sign that document before I shrink you to the size of your intelligence.”

 

**

 

Judge number five discovered he didn’t have the stomach for a long trial, and bowed out.

 

**

 

Judge six accidentally cut his head off while shaving.

 

**

 

Judge seven, lucky number seven, won the betting pool and vanished before ever serving.

 

**

 

Judge eight fell into a storm drain and was washed out into the River Lethe, where he promptly forgot six centuries of law school.

 

**

 

Judge number nine retired when told it was his turn to serve.

 

**

 

Judge number ten deliberately focused upon the appointment of a new president instead of rejuvenating the Doctor’s trial. He met with no problems whatsoever, and left his position satisfactorily after the required week of service.

 

**

 

Judge number eleven looked at the Doctor severely. The man needed hosed down again, and shaved. “Doctor, I want you to know that bullying techniques aren’t going to work on me.”

The Doctor blinked. “Bullying techniques?”

“Don’t play stupid. The Master has systematically eliminated, frustrated, or circumvented the last six judges. What’s more, he’s done it while violating serious time laws. He’s been seen in four different bodies.”

The Doctor’s eyebrows went up. He didn’t say anything.

“Tell us how he’s getting past security and bio-fields, and we’ll start your new trial with a more lenient view,” the judge promised.

“I have no idea. The Master really can’t be stopped, you make out? He’s the only person I know to ever get out of a black hole.” The Doctor shook his head, as if saddened that the judge didn’t know what he was up against. “He made it out of the Minotaur Maze in three minutes, and that was only because he got held up in murdering the Minotaur.”

“You sound very proud of him,” the judge commented, feeling a black mood settle between his eyes. “He’s evil, and he’s in league with you!”

“Why do you all keep trying to prove we work as a team?” The Doctor rolled his eyes. “We never really did work as a team, not ever. We made an exception one time, but he quickly backed out of our agreement.”

“Why do we believe you’re cohorts?” The judge took a piece of paper from his desk and held it over.

The Doctor blanched. “This is forged! I never married hi-.”

“Of course you wouldn’t want everyone to know you’re married,” the judge said smoothly. “This was in the official files. It isn’t forged.”

The Doctor shook his head. “I’ll get him for this,” he vowed, thinking of how he’d like to wring the Master’s neck.

 

**

 

“Hello, my awfully wedded,” a smooth, dark voice inveigled into the Doctor’s holding cell.

The Doctor got up to see Svengali Master leaning on the bars, smiling. “You,” he said flatly, “are a liar. We never got married. You never asked me. We never had that sort of a relationship.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” the Master assured. “I haven’t lost my mind.” He crossed his arms, casual and unconcerned with all the advanced security surrounding the cell. “You see, our wedding was advantageous. Mated Time Lords can’t be put on trial separately.”

“You…” The Doctor stared at him. “They’ll catch you, though.”

“Will they?” Svengali Master gave a mocking look around the cell and adjoining hallway. “They seem to be doing a poor job of it right now.”

“Well, but they won’t let me go just because they can’t find you,” the Doctor argued.

“They have to. It’s in their beloved charter.” The Master smiled again. “Our new president is rather a stickler for rules and laws.”

“Who is it?” The Doctor began to feel hopeful again.

“Romana,” the Master said, drawing the name out like it was sweet and juicy.

“No!”

“Yes,” the Master assured, his grin threatening to split his face. “And all you have to do, my dear Doctor, is make my future incarnations happy.” He stepped back, chuckling. “Oh, the knowledge of this will keep me warm throughout all time. You’ll be mine, one day, all mine.”

“I can’t make you happy!” The Doctor protested. “That’s impossible!”

The Master paused, seeming to consider that claim. “Well, I suppose,” he admitted. He straightened and shot the Doctor a brilliant smile. “I’ll settle for you putting out.”

 

**

 

“Hello again, my awfully wedded,” the Master greeted the Doctor. He got up from the jump seat and sauntered to meet him. “Your throng of admirers finally let you go, I see.”

“How did you get in here?” The Doctor asked, hurrying to check the TARDIS controls. Nothing looked out of place or odd, which worried him.

“Your TARDIS let me in a long time ago, and even complied with staying out of phase,” the Master told him, grinning. “I apologized, you see.”

“You couldn’t have been sincere.”

“Oh, but I was.”

“Poppycock.” The Doctor started setting his controls. Glad as he was that Gallifrey still stood, he wanted off the planet right now.

“She even let me view the logs. You’ve had a busy regeneration so far.” The Master stood far too close to him, and seemed to be sniffing the air close to his neck. “That Amy girl certainly was a human after my own heart. She really wanted you, didn’t she?”

“At first,” the Doctor admitted. “Well, not at first. At first it was fish fingers and custard, which was lovely.” He nimbly dodged the Master to set his Helmic Regulator and engage the Avanti Lever. “Got a bit more complicated after that, though. Amy had a lot of… appetite.”

“Good for her,” the Master murmured. “Aren’t you even going to thank me for your brilliant rescue?”

“Thanks,” the Doctor replied promptly, his mouth feeling exceedingly dry. “We’re not really married, you know. Why does everyone want to marry me? I make a rotten husband.”

“Because you’ve got the cock-tease thing down to an art form,” the Master supplied helpfully. “Look at you.”

The Doctor glanced at himself. “There’s nothing teasing- I resent that!”

“Doctor…” The Master advanced upon him and craned his neck until the Doctor had no excuse for not meeting his eyes. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not even a bad part of your character,” he said. “I like you the way you are. I always have.”

The Doctor swallowed. He’d been the object of a lot of overhauling missions, had his ‘character’ corrected countless times. People were always trying to tame him or improve him in one way or another. But, come to think of it, the Master had never tried to improve him. Not once. He did seem to enjoy him just the way he was. “Really?” He asked, his voice too small.

“Of course,” the Master assured smoothly, his voice dropping into a caress. “You’re perfect as-is.”

The Doctor straightened his bow tie. “You don’t think I’m too arrogant, too thoughtless?”

“Perfect,” the Master repeated.

“Well, you’re the only one who’s ever thought so,” the Doctor sighed.

The Master stepped back and put his arms out to his sides, shoulder height. “Well, I’m perfect, too,” he said, grinning.

The Doctor’s lips twitched. “Why do I even care for your opinion?”

“Because perfect people have to stick together,” the Master answered. “Now, take us somewhere fun. But, no clowns and no caged animals.”

The Doctor, his hearts lighter, began re-plotting. “Too many clowns and caged animals inside, anyway,” he muttered.

 

This could work out.

 

 

 

 


End file.
